


We Are Art

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Newt is an artist, Threesome - M/M/M, artist!AU, i'm not good with tags, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 21:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11044599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Newt’s muse leaves him and he is at a loss. Maybe he just needs to try something new.





	We Are Art

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this first for a few friends, months ago. But I thought that others would maybe enjoy this too?
> 
> You can find this on my nsfw Tumblr (hellyesiamashamed).

Newt is an art student, constantly searching for new inspiration, doing everything and especially don’t doing it in any order; photography, drawing, body painting, sculpturing. You name it, he does it.

But his inspiration is running low lately, the numerous animals who are his pets not giving him the right feeling anymore. He loves to paint them, forming sculptures after them, taking pictures of them and all of this is stunning, beautiful, has a natural edge to it that only Newt can capture. His professors love his work. He loves his work. But it is always the same, not having this wild feeling anymore.

He loves taking pictures of his cat Niffler, running around in the garden of his beloved brother, trying to catch butterflies, stealing the cutlery, pawing at his brother’s pocket watch. ( _‘Who still uses pocket watches? Theseus, get a normal watch, you are looking like an old man!’_ )

He loves painting his parrot Pickett that seems to be constantly sitting on his shoulder, going everywhere with him. The stunning colours capture the eye of everyone and people permanently compliment Newt on how he gets the exact colour of every single feather on his canvas.

He loves sculpturing his snake Occamy, loves the curves and the possibilities—his sculptures sell well. People love how he adds little wings and a beak and paints it carefully in the brightest of colours, ranging from dark blue over petrol, turquoise and finally to a light green, everything shimmering, catching the light. It’s mystical.

He loves watching his capuchin Dougal getting the brushes and running all over the canvas, creating something unique no human could do. Newt films him, capturing every moment, uploading it on YouTube to make people laugh with stupid commentary. It’s not necessarily art but it’s his life all the same.

But lately he can’t find inspiration in all of this. His pictures of Niffler look dull, not lively, as if they were staged; his paintings of Pickett look like someone has sucked the colours out of his pencils, his brushes, only leaving depressing black and white pictures of a statue of a parrot; his sculptures of Occamy look less lively, less mysterious, only like a snake with badly glued on wings and not quite fitting colours; his videos of Dougal aren’t funny anymore, only ever the same, leaving him desperate for a _change_.

Newt isn’t as happy as he used to be and of course his brother notices. Of course his friends notice. ( _‘Newt, honey, what’s wrong, dear?’_ Queenie asks nearly every time they meet. Newt refuses to answer.)

Instead of talking he locks himself up in his flat, letting no one in, not even Jacob. ( _‘But I brought you pastries! You love my pastries, come on, Newt!’_ )

He spends his days on his couch, Pickett on the backrest, Niffler curled against his stomach and Dougal roaming around in his hair. His phone has so many messages—most of them from his brother—but he never answers. He listens to them though. ( _‘Newton, it can’t go on this way. You need to finish uni, you know that! Mother will be so disappointed if you give up now. You can find another inspiration—maybe not animals. Have you ever tried with objects? Or humans?’_ )

The message does it and gets Newt finally out of his flat. He has an idea in mind—or more a certain someone. When Theseus mentioned he should use people as inspiration, he immediately had someone in mind. Someone of his art class. Someone with shoulder long, wavy, black hair, as tall as Newt himself and with a gentle, somewhat shy but coy smile. He is delicate and Newt can imagine working with him.

But when the time comes and they are together in class, their professor not having arrived yet, he can’t bring himself to ask. ( _‘Newt,’_ he tells himself, _‘Just ask him. The worst answer you can get is a no.’_ ) But when he opens his mouth, his classmate smiles at him and he falls silent, looking away. This is way harder than expected.

Class is awkward with Newt not getting anything done, zooming in and out, not really listening and getting scolded like a little boy from their teacher. Meanwhile the boy is still smiling at him and Newt looks at the ground, somehow having lost his courage. Why has he become so shy all of a sudden? It can’t be because his classmate is just too stunning to be true or his smile is just too bright to be aimed at him—at him, the oddball, the little brother of Theseus Scamander. The one who didn’t become a famous lawyer like his brother but instead staying at home with far too many animals that shouldn’t even be considered pets, doing art-y things all day.

After class he wants to pack his things and leave as fast as he can but a warm hand on his arm stops him and he looks up in far too brown eyes, a pale face with a bright smile, framed by black locks. He doesn’t know what to say. ( _‘Good to see you again in class. I quite missed you,’_ says the young man and Newt breaks into a smile. Finally.)

They walk a bit together, chatting and finally Newt gets his head out of the gutter and just asks. ( _‘Doyouwanttobemymodelcredence,’_ he chokes out in a rushed manner, stunning Credence into silence. And then. Another grin.)

Credence agrees and the smile on Newt’s face is as bright as the sun—as cheesy as it sounds. He will have a beautiful, stunning model. He just doesn’t know yet how to use him.

They agree to meet up on the weekend at Newt’s flat—he has an atelier there, a small room down in the souterrain. His brother rented it for him to work and Newt is still embarrassed to accept the offer but he knows he needs this place. And Theseus is just too happy to provide it for his little brother.

When the doorbell rings, Newt doesn’t expect it. Brush in his mouth, paint everywhere, his chest bare, only in sweatpants and no shoes—or socks for that matter—he stumbles to the door, Niffler hot on his heels. He has forgotten the time and now Credence is already here and he isn’t even remotely decently dressed.

He hurries to the door, unlocking the door way down on the building and calling into the speaker for Credence to wait there. He opens the door and rushes down, Niffler following him, Pickett on his one shoulder, Dougal on his other, Occamy curled around one of his arms and his neck. He doesn’t even realise that his pets hitched a ride on him.

He comes to a stop in front of Credence, panting, his brush still in his mouth, animals scattered on and around him, paint sticking everywhere. And Credence stares in wonder. And then he breaks out into a bark of a laugh, so real and honest he has to hold his stomach while Newt stares in awe.

As soon as Credence has regained his self-control, Newt motions for him to follow him. Dougal has already jumped onto their guest, little fingers sticking in black hair, but Credence doesn’t seem to mind, chattering on with Newt until they get into the atelier where Newt offers his guest a chair. And now. What to do?

( _‘I don’t know what to do if I’m honest,’_ Newt admits sheepishly, avoiding every eye contact. _‘I thought we could try a few things.’_ )

Credence is just too happy to do as Newt wants and together they figure out what to try first. Newt explains his problem to Credence and the young man nods in understanding, trying to come up with an idea. He vehemently shakes his head when Newt suggests to draw him like he is now or sculpture him. ( _‘No, you need to try out something new.’_ )

Newt nearly chokes on his own breath when Credence begins to strip.

( _‘Are you serious?!’_ )

He needs to stop himself from screaming into Credence’s face but the other man only smiles—again this coy smile—and lets his boxers drop. He is flushing now Newt notices, a beautiful shade of red, up from his face and all down to his chest. It is fairly obvious that Credence has never done this before.

But Newt’s professionalism kicks in and he arranges Credence, pulling and pushing until he poses like Newt wants him to pose. And then Newt gets a hair tie from _somewhere_ —honestly, he had no clue he even had such a thing—and ties Credence’s hair back into a messy bun. ( _‘Perfect.’_ )

And then he gets to work. A new canvas is organised, brushes put in place, the one in his mouth pushed aside, paint placed next to the canvas. And then Newt shakes his head and gets Occamy from around his shoulders to put it on Credence’s, the other man tensing slightly. ( _‘Don’t worry, Occamy is harmless, really,’_ Newt reassures him and Credence actually relaxes.)

And then he paints. Oh god, does he paint. He works for hours, Credence not complaining, even if his position must become uncomfortable. But Newt is in a flow, his brush dancing over the canvas, his eyes shining and Credence still having this lovely blush. It inspires Newt beyond believe.

They meet often after this first day, Newt taking inspiration from Credence, even his friends and his brother visiting and meeting his newfound friend. It surprises him that Theseus gets along well enough with Credence but—he has to admit—Credence is easy to be around. Easy on the eyes too. Lovely even. Newt sighs. He knows he is in trouble when his body begins to react to the nude portraits he painted of Credence. But he forces his desires down.

And then there comes the day where his inspiration falters again. He is sitting in his atelier, holding his head and _thinkingthinkingthinking_. But to no avail. He can’t bring himself to do anything. Credence was so much inspiration but it is gone entirely, all the paintings, even the sculptures floating in front of Newt’s eyes, mashing together in one boring big picture. It is the same with his works with his pets again. Everything looks the same and he needs something _new_.

And then Credence is there, crouching in front of him, lifting his chin. ( _‘What’s it, Newt? Am I not enough?’_ )

Newt wants to shout and to drag him into his arms and tell him that he is enough, is always enough. But he doesn’t and instead leans forward and kisses him and he is desperate. But then there are gentle hands, tangling in his messy, auburn strands at the nape of his neck, and a greedy tongue, mapping out his mouth, and there are lips and teeth and the need to touch more, taste more, feel more.

The inspiration isn’t back but Newt finds other ways to entertain himself. Most of these activities involve a very naked Credence. And soon he sees why he got bored. First with his animals and then with Credence. As objects of art, mind you!

They are too much like him. He loves his pets dearly and they love him all the same. And Credence is gentle and timid just like him. He needs contrast. His pets provided it with their energy, with running around and being unique. And Credence provided it with being rash and willing to do what Newt wanted him to do. Nude portraits were something new. But now he got used to them, he knows every single bit of Credence’s body. And he needs a contrast. He doesn’t want this purity in his works anymore.

( _‘Maybe I can help you,’_ Theseus says when he calls him and cries to him for an hour. And Theseus does help him.)

When the doorbell rings it is unexpected. Newt and Credence are down in the souterrain, Newt just applying an ice blue eyeshadow to Credence’s lids. Credence looks fantastic—he’s wearing an aquamarine blue silk dress, his make-up on point, Newt just needs to finish it. He kisses Credence on the mouth—luckily he didn’t apply the lipstick yet—and rushes to the door, opening it. And there stands his brother and … someone Newt doesn’t know. That someone is a man, Newt would say he is in his mid-thirties, an inch or so smaller than himself, slicked back black hair, cut short on the sides, brown eyes and Newt is _sure_ he has seen him somewhere before.

Theseus introduces them and it is then that Newt notices why he seems to know the man. ( _‘Newton, this is Percival Graves—he’s one of the law professors at your uni. I sometimes hold guest speeches in his seminars.’_ )

Newt ushers them in, Dougal automatically jumping onto Percival, putting his little fingers in the neatly styled hair. Percival scowls. And Newt is fast to untangle his capuchin from the man, not entirely sure what his brother tries to accomplish with this.

When they come down into the atelier, Credence is sitting there lazily, playing with Niffler but careful to not ruin the dress. He smiles at them and greets Theseus and then. Then he falls silent as soon as he lays eyes on Percival. The naturally bright young man is suddenly a stammering mess, a blush creeping up his neck and making an ugly contrast to the blue make-up. Newt doesn’t like this in the slightest. ( _‘H-hello, sir,’_ Credence stammers as Percival grabs his hand. _‘I’m sorry I missed some of your seminars, I really am!’_ )

Newt learns that Credence studies law as well as art—his mother making him. She wouldn’t pay for his education otherwise. But Credence doesn’t like his law classes. They are boring and demanding and nothing he wants to do. This all comes out in a rush, the other men sitting next to him, listening.

As soon as he is finished, Percival puts a hand on his leg, Newt watching with disdain. He knows it’s just a gesture to calm Credence down but Credence is _Newt’s_ boyfriend, he is _Newt’s_ model, he is _Newt’s_. ( _‘You don’t need to do this, you know? There are other options to pay for your studies,’_ Percival says quietly, trying to calm the upset young man. Theseus is sitting next to them, fidgeting awkwardly until he excuses himself and leaves.)

And Newt is still … what is he? He doesn’t want to call it _jealous_. But he is. ( _‘Right, let’s get to work.’_ ) He makes them stand up, regarding Percival with a critical eye, examining him from head to toe. Then he turns to Credence, make-up smudgy and he sighs and applies it new. When he is done, he turns back to Percival, looking up and down before he rushes off to his flat, getting a few suits. One of them a dark red one, nearly bordeaux. He gets to work, making Percival try on the suit and luckily it fits. When he tries to apply make-up though, Percival flinches. ( _‘No make-up, Scamander!’_ ) But Newt doesn’t want to hear any of this and tells him to sit still or otherwise he’d rope him to the chair. That shuts Percival up somehow.

Percival and Credence are two parts of one piece, ice and fire, cold and hot, shy and confident. The photos turn out to be beautiful—both men are beautiful. And Newt has the urge to draw them. It is something new, something raw, a contrast he needs in his life. And he is driven by jealousy, putting his rage about the looks Credence throws Percival and the light touches they share into his work, creating photos and paintings full of energy, of raw, unbound lust and desire.

He wants to tore them to pieces.

The day comes to an end and Percival excuses himself. ( _‘I did this because I owed Theseus a favour. But I would like to do this again, it was an … experience.’_ )

Newt isn’t too happy about this. Especially not when Credence shoots Percival a smile and the man reciprocates. He has to refrain from shoving Percival out of the door before dragging Credence up the stairs and into his flat. ( _‘Newt, wha—’_ )

But he has none of this. He backs Credence up against the wall and kisses him hard, all lips, tongue and teeth, licking, biting, until he tastes blood, until Credence’s fingers tangle in the soft hair in the nape of Newt’s neck, tugging at the strands, until Credence makes soft, whimpering noises and presses himself against Newt. ( _‘I don’t want you to ever look at him like this again,’_ Newt whispers harshly against Credence’s mouth and the other man nods before the bruising kissing continues.)

There are searching hands, panting mouths, urgent noises and somehow they end up with Newt’s trousers and boxers to his ankles and Credence’s dress hold up to his stomach, only silky underwear visible. But Newt doesn’t waste any time and gets rid of it, rubbing their hard cocks together in a rushed manner before grabbing them a bit to tight, drawing a pained whimper from Credence. ( _‘Shh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Everything will be fine.’_ ) Newt’s teeth scrape against Credence’s neck, against the soft, pale flesh, while his hand jerks them both off in rough movements, not loving and tender as he used to be the other times they have been together like this.

They are still pressed against the wall and Newt has never been so in control but Credence is a trembling mess beneath his hands and he is on a power trip. But Credence seems to enjoy it, pressing himself eager against Newt’s working hand, his own nails leaving scratches on a pale, freckled back. And then they are done, ruining the silken dress in the wake of their orgasm but Newt is sure that they have torn it before so he doesn’t care that much.

Credence’s make-up is ruined but there is so much beauty in this that Newt can’t bring himself to care. They lie down on the floor together, panting heavily, Credence pressed against his chest and Newt cradling him close. He is sobbing now, not knowing why he did what he did. ( _‘I’m sorry, so sorry, so so sorry—’_ He repeats the words over and over until Credence kisses his tears away, reassuring him that he is fine, everything is fine.)

After this Newt takes a photo of Credence’s fuck-flushed face with the ruined make-up and it is pure and utter beauty.

Then they talk. They need to. Newt knows that as does Credence. They are both so sorry.

It takes them a few days, a week, two, to figure out their relationship. They decide to try again, Credence admitting that he has a crush on Percival—but he loves Newt at the same time. He is so confused. But Newt just holds him and reassures him that he’s fine, they are fine, everything is fine. ( _‘I have you.’_ )

It takes a month until they decide to ask Percival to come over again. The professor agrees. But this time Newt has something entirely different in mind. Another contrast that is neither him nor Credence but so much Percival. He prepares his atelier with Credence’s help and as soon as Percival is there, Dougal again taking a liking to sitting on his shoulder, until Credence gently coaxes him on his own, Newt begins to dress them. He gives them elegant suits to wear, everything black and white and grey—except for Percival’s tie that is a blood red and Credence’s bow tie that is an icy blue. Newt wants to keep the theme of the two of them going, relishing their differences.

He takes so much photos of them, each and every one showing elegance beyond believe. A classic elegance. And Newt has to admit—with a sad smile—that they work so well together. Credence and Percival just _fit_. And he hates it. Hates it so much.

Tears are now streaming down his face and his hands tremble, his camera nearly falling to the ground. But Credence catches it, placing it neatly on a small table, and holding Newt close, thumbing the tears away. ( _‘Shh. Everything is fine, love. I have you.’_ )

When Newt chances a tear blurred glance at Percival he sees the hurt on the man’s face. And something deep inside of him aches. He shouldn’t stand between these two men, shouldn’t claim Credence as his when it is so obvious that Percival and Credence are made for each other. He pushes Credence away and takes a few steps back, grabbing Niffler off the ground and cradling him to his chest, crying silently into the warm fur.

Credence knows better than to approach him and Newt is glad that he accepts their boundaries. But Percival doesn’t. Newt doesn’t know how and doesn’t know when but somehow the man stands next to him, guiding him to a chair and sitting him down. He is still clutching Niffler to his chest, the cat not making the faintest sound as if he knows that his human needs to be comforted.

There are gentle words and two people sitting next to him and being nice and Newt feels so _so_ awful. And he has talked to Credence about this—he has!—but somehow … somehow everything feels wrong. ( _‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’_ )

( _‘No need to be sorry,’_ Percival says and puts a hand on Newt’s shoulder.) Everything breaks. And they talk. It feels very mature to talk about these things. It’s late when exhaustion finally kicks in and Credence ushers them up to Newt’s flat. A blanket and a pillow are thrown on the couch and Percival settles down, offered to sleep there, while Credence coaxes Newt into his bedroom, following his boyfriend and lying down with him. Newt doesn’t notice anything. Everything is a blur and he feels so awful.

The next day comes and Newt feels a bit better after a shower and a good breakfast. They talk a bit more and finally agree to give it a try. Newt agrees for Credence’s sake. He loves him, he truly does. And he wants him to be happy. And Credence loves Newt but he likes Percival all the same and he is torn. And Percival has grown to like these two young men and he wants them to be happy—Theseus has told him that Newt deserves to be happy. And Newt doesn’t look happy at all in this very moment. And Percival knows better than to summon Theseus Scamander’s wrath.

So they try it. It’s awkward and unknown at first but they get used to it, Newt becoming happier with each day and when he falls asleep, curled against Percival, two month later, they know it will work out. It will.

It’s summer and there is a gallery that wants some of Newt’s work. There should be a theme and Newt wants to submit his works of Credence and Percival. They agree. But he needs a bit more, something to catch the eye.

( _‘May I paint you?’_ He asks reluctantly and Percival and Credence look at him like he has grown two heads.) And then he explains. Not painting a picture _of_ them but painting a picture _on_ them. They agree. They even agree to be live models at the gallery. So Newt gets his body paint and they strip. He has seen them naked before but this. This feels more intimate than ever. ( _‘C’mon, you too,’_ Credence says and tugs at Newt’s shirt. And Newt obeys.)

Credence is all blue and green and purple and Percival is all red and orange and yellow. Newt titles this work theme ‘ _Ice and Fire_ ’. They are a contrast, they are two parts of one piece. They are his.

His brush works on delicate skin, everywhere, and they would have to scrub away the paint for days to come. At some point Newt abandons the brushes, going for his hands, letting them roam all over the bodies that present themselves so willingly to him.

Suddenly strong hands grab him and drag him down and a red mouth presses against his, while blue hands ghost over his body and he gasps slightly, closing his eyes. He doesn’t care that he gets paint all over his body, couldn’t care less.

Hot skin on hot skin, hands and mouths and the urge to gasp, to moan, to let his tongue roam over heated bodies. He can feel teeth on his neck and he doesn’t know if it’s Credence or Percival or both but it feels so right, feels so good. There is a paint wet hand on his cock, stroking it gently while his own hands scratch over skin, trying to find a hold and failing. They are making a mess but it is a good mess. All moving bodies and love and the smell of sex in the air.

And then there is another hand, working him open carefully, the urge to suppress a whimper gone as soon as the hand on his cock is replaced by a mouth and he bucks his hips. Strong hands grasp him, hold him down while they take him apart slowly, fingers soon replaced by something bigger and it hurts, hurts so much he screams and they still and he pants but the pain goes away and they continue. And it feels so good, so right, so much like _them_. And Newt slowly falls apart beneath his lovers until they are all lying on the floor, curled around each other, panting and smiling and being happy all the same.

Then Newt looks at all of them, at the smudgy paint, Credence spotting yellow, orange and red paint in some parts, Percival spotting blues, greens and purples. And Newt is a mix of every colour he used on them. ( _‘We ruined it.’_ )

( _‘No. We made it perfect.’_ )


End file.
